


Wet T-Shirts For Charity

by LadyDrace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Communication, Consent, Getting Together, Hairy Derek Hale, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Derek Hale, Wet Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 19:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14088423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: Derek takes his car to a charity car wash. He didn't realize the wash came with a side of sexual frustration and pining.





	Wet T-Shirts For Charity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuchs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuchs/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic for my dearest babe, Hannah. I would wash cars for you in wet t-shirts any day. <3 ILU and I hope you've had a wonderful day. Happy birthday! <3
> 
> Unbetaed, but thoroughly edited. 
> 
> Thanks to my Sterek Bar squad for making a minigame to help me choose what to write. <3

“Aren't you hot?” Stiles asks, and Derek could honestly cry inside from how on the nose that question is.

 

Because yes, he is hot. He's sweating up a storm, because it's high summer, and asphalt is literally melting in front of his eyes, but he hasn't gotten around to trimming down his beard, and he's still wearing his Henley. Unlike Stiles who is in very, very short shorts and thin t-shirt, neither of which covers a thing, because he's _soaking wet_.

 

So yes, Derek is hot. Under the collar and in general.

 

“Look,” Stiles says, gesturing with the water hose he's holding, and splashing even more water on himself. Derek gets incredibly distracted by the rivulets running down Stiles' legs, zig-zagging through the hairs there. “I get that you're trying to uphold some kind of too-cool-for-sandals image here, but even big, bad werewolves should try to avoid heatstroke, okay?”

 

He nods before realizing what he's nodding about. Damn his distraction. “Okay. Call me when you're done,” he says shortly, and unhooks his car key from his key ring. He tosses it in Stiles' general direction, and then walks away as fast as he can, ignoring Stiles' shout that “it's like five more minutes, asshole!” because there's only so much he can take.

 

It was for _charity_. That's his excuse, and he's sticking to it. And, to be fair to himself, when he accepted the car-wash event flier from Stiles' sweaty hand a few days prior, he hadn't actually realized that Stiles would be one of the people doing the washing. And that he'd be wearing clingy grey cotton shorts and a thin, white t-shirt. He should really be a little outraged, because all the barely legal car washers had to wear the same thing, and there had to be a law against that somewhere. Knowing what Lydia's bra looks like wasn't one of Derek's goals in life.

 

But, _god_... watching Stiles soaping up Derek's car, dripping wet and laughing and leaving so little to the imagination? Derek needs an ice bath for several reasons now. Especially because he can't just put an end to his misery and ask Stiles out.

 

Maybe a couple of years ago, when Stiles never hesitated to comment on Derek's pretty face or ridiculous muscles, maybe back then he would have just asked and gotten it over with. But Stiles had been too young, and Derek hadn't exactly been in the best place emotionally. And Stiles deserves better.

 

The problem now is that, along with some balance and self-insight, Derek's journey towards getting better included letting himself go in a lot of ways. His strict regimen of working out and self-grooming had been mostly a self-defense mechanism, as if presenting just the right image of polished and unattainable could keep people at arm's length. Or at the very least make him feel like he had even a tiny slice of control over his fucked up life.

 

Giving that up had been both terrifying and joyful.

 

But the problem with that is that Stiles can't seem to let it go. It seems like every other day there's a comment about Derek's hermit beard or his unibrow or the chest hair peeking up through the V-neck of his shirt. Gone are the days of lustful comments and over-the-top physical appreciation. So, clearly, Derek isn't Stiles' type anymore.

 

There's still lust. Derek's nose tells him that much on a daily basis, but ignoring the words in favor of smell would make him no better than a rapist. His mother's words from his first werewolf-themed _talk_ still blare through his mind every so often. “Just because you can see it, hear it or smell it doesn't mean they want it. Only their words can tell you that.” He can still see her face so clearly in the memory, so serious and sincere, and the absolute furthest thing from his mind had been to doubt her. And the kinds of things he's smelled on people since then, not to mention his own weird and unrelated boners, have only ever backed up the lesson.

 

So verbal consent is gospel to Derek, and as long as Stiles' words are scathing, the smells mean nothing.

 

He slams the door to the loft closed behind him, locking it for good measure too, and immediately strips off his sweaty Henley, throwing it in the vague direction of the bedroom as he heads for the shower. Sweat is literally dripping down his back, and maybe if he cranks to temperature to cold enough he'll forget the outline of Stiles' dick in those shorts. Not likely, but Derek is learning to be optimistic.

 

He's barely even out of the shower when there's an angry knock on the door, and he doesn't need his werewolf senses to know who it is. He's cranky and frustrated enough that he doesn't bother putting on a shirt, just settles for his ratty basketball shorts, because it's too hot to be alive, and he's already sweated enough for today.

  
“Open up, you dick! If these shorts had pockets I could carry my stuff in I'd be unlocking your door myself right now!” Stiles rants from outside the door, and Derek hesitates for a good ten seconds before actually opening it, just to actually _be_ a dick. Also because he needs a minute to shove down the reminder that Stiles having a key to his loft doesn't mean anything other than the fact that Stiles is nosy and has trouble with boundaries.

 

“What?” Derek snaps, because he's tired and pining, and would really like to drown his misery in a pint of Ben and Jerry's right about now.

 

Stiles throws his car key at his face. “I brought your car back, asshole. You're welcome.”

 

Derek is almost happy he has to scramble to catch the key before it hits him in the face, because Stiles is still soaked to the skin. The event is barely a block away, and clearly Stiles didn't stop to dry off before coming over.

 

Noticing Derek's helpless staring, and also completely misinterpreting it, Stiles scoffs. “Yes, I drove your car like this. If you didn't want wet seats you could have maybe not stomped off like an angry toddler just because I asked a simple question.”

 

He's clearly pissed off, and there was a time Derek would have just slammed the door in his face. But even back then he didn't _want_ to actively tick people off, it just never seemed like there were other options. But he has some now, so he uses them.

 

“I'm sorry. It wasn't you. I was just... hot,” he says, as honestly as he feels he can.

 

“That was my whole point, dude. Why didn't you just take your shirt off or something? I _know_ you don't have a problem with that.”

 

“Well...” Derek says carefully, trying to weigh his options before saying too much. “I didn't want to... make you uncomfortable.” He congratulates himself on that wording, because it's still true. But whether the discomfort would have come from the view of his hairy chest or his awkward, lustful pining is left up to interpretation.

 

But clearly Stiles isn't picking up what Derek is putting down.

 

“Dude, I'm insecure about my _own_ chest, not yours,” he says, gesturing to himself as if he somehow doesn't know that every detail of said chest is on display. His nipples are standing out like they're _reaching_ for Derek, and it's some kind of torture, definitely.

 

“It's not- it's not insecurity. It's the... you know. Your opinion of my... current state,” Derek stammers, having to struggle to put words together while faced with those nipples.

 

“State? What state? Are you hurt?” Stiles asks with mild alarm, eyes darting across his body quick as lightning.

 

“No? It's just...” Derek gestures helplessly at his chest and beard.

 

There's a long moment where the gears are obviously turning in Stiles' head, but then it finally seems to hit home. “The fur? Dude, I don't have a problem with that!” he says, a hint of outrage in his voice.

 

“You just called it _fur_ ,” Derek points out, and Stiles flails.

 

“As a joke! Because you're a wolf and it's ironic!”

 

“You asked last week if I was auditioning for hobo porn.”

 

“Fondly!” Stiles yells. “I asked fondly!”

 

“You called my eyebrows _the caterpillar that lives on my face_.”

 

“Caterpillars are adorable! Come on, my favorite Pokemon is Wurmple, you should know how much I love those things!”

 

Derek does actually know. He's watched more than one documentary on caterpillars with Stiles by now. It's some of his fondest recent memories, and, god, if only they hadn't been tainted with so much pining.

 

But then Derek has to turn over in his head what Stiles just said. “Wait... are you saying that you _like_ my eyebrows?”

 

“Yes? They're, like, one of your most prominent features?” Stiles says, as if it's weird that Derek even has to ask.

 

“But you're constantly mocking my unibrow.”

 

“ _Fondly_. Did you miss that part?”

 

“No. But it didn't feel fond.”

 

Stiles actually looks contrite, and Derek half wants to assure him that there are no hard feelings, even though there are. He hates seeing Stiles upset.

 

“Well. In that case I'm really sorry. I was just... trying to be your friend. Friends mock each other. At least, all my friends do.”

 

“Maybe you should consider more friends than Lydia and Scott,” Derek says with a huff, and invites Stiles in with a sweep of his hand, because obviously he's not going anywhere, and judging by those nipples there's a draft in the doorway.

 

“That's probably a good point. Why do I love rude people so much? It's gotta be some kind of deep-seated character flaw” Stiles says, morosely crossing his arms over his chest, only to immediately uncross them with a grimace. “Ugh, this clinging is _not_ comfortable while it's dry...ing...” he trails off, his jaw dropping as he looks down. “Uhh. Derek? Have my clothes been this see-through the whole time?”

 

“Yes? I thought you knew. You could see everyone's underwear.”

 

“I thought I was just glorifying it in my mind because it was hot and I'm a horndog! I didn't think it was this bad. Oh my _god_ ,” he moans, squirming like he's battling with himself to cover up. And now Derek feels twice as bad for ogling.

 

“Go to the bathroom and strip down, I'll get you something dry to wear,” Derek says, deliberately averting his eyes as he gets a towel out of his closet, handing it to Stiles without looking at him before heading to the bedroom.

 

“God, thank you, you're my hero,” Stiles says, zipping into the bathroom like his ass is on fire.

 

Derek leaves a pair of shorts and a t-shirt outside the bathroom door, and gives a quick knock before going away again, and deliberately not looking at the pale arm darting out to grab the clothes.

 

“No wonder Mrs. Hansson tipped like fifty bucks,” Stiles grumbles as he comes out, arms crossed tight across his chest. “She's always been a dirty old woman.”

 

“To be fair, I think she was ogling Allison more than anyone else. And Allison definitely encouraged it,” Derek points out, remembering all too well the brain-searing image of Allison splaying herself across Mrs. Hansson's Porche. She clearly knew what the game was. Stiles, apparently, did not.

 

“If I'd known it was basically soft-core porn I don't think I would have signed up,” he says morosely and plops down on Derek's couch. “I'm sorry you had to see all of... well, this,” he says, gesturing to his body with another grimace, and Derek wants to violently murder anyone who has taken part in making Stiles feel this bad about himself.

 

Since he's so busy thinking up ways of punishing people, he kinda loses track of his mouth for a hot second.

 

“ _I'm_ not,” he says, and then immediately hates himself.

 

“What?” Stiles says, but not in a _I didn't hear you_ type of way, because of course it's not. Derek is never that lucky.

 

“I'm sorry, that was... inappropriate.” Stiles was _just_ complaining about being ogled, and here Derek is making it worse. He should spend time thinking up ways to punish _himself_ instead.

 

“No, no, hold up. You're _not_ sorry to have basically seen me naked?!”

 

“Well, no,” Derek admits. “But I shouldn't have said that, you're clearly uncomfortable-”

 

“Dude, you need to make out with me right now,” Stiles says, and Derek's entire brain does a flip-flop in his skull.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Stiles is already standing up and coming closer, and Derek has the slightly ridiculous urge to back away, even though he's definitely had this fantasy a few times. “Isn't that how it works? You're into me, I'm into you, we should make out? Or, if that's too fast for you, we could do a date instead?”

 

Derek has completely lost track of what's going on right now, but Stiles is still coming closer, smiling all softly and wearing Derek's clothes, and smelling like lust and affection and happiness and _saying_ he wants to make out. There's really no choice here other than letting Stiles step into his arms and back him up against the nearest wall. There's no hesitation, Stiles just going directly for Derek's lips like he's been waiting for ages, and Derek can't help the soft moan he lets out as the kiss deepens.

 

“I can't believe you're actually into me,” Stiles murmurs between kisses, and though Derek's brain is rapidly turning to mulch, that comment does make something niggle at him.

 

“Wait,” he says after a few more kisses, and Stiles pulls away reluctantly. “I'm a little confused. Are you saying you're into me too?”

 

“ _Duh_.”

 

“Then what's with all the ribbing about my beard?”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, but Derek gets the distinct impression he's rolling them at himself rather than Derek. “Ugh, look, I did apologize, okay, I realize it was not cool of me. But, I guess... I guess I felt that maybe if I made it look like I wasn't into you then it wouldn't hurt so much that you weren't into me back.”

 

“Oh. We're ridiculous,” Derek says, and Stiles grins.

 

“We so are.”

 

Derek donates a thousand dollars to the charity, and then joins it to make sure the events are properly advertised, and that everyone can give actual informed consent to be half-naked for the cause.

 

Stiles keeps the outfit. And wears it to wash Derek's car as an anniversary gift a year later. Only this time it's a private event, and Derek gets to ravish Stiles on the hood of the Camaro.

 

The end.

 


End file.
